


No Happy Endings

by The_Female_Gaymer



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Confessions, Inspired by Music, Love Confessions, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Post-Game(s), Reminiscing, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:36:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7246957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Female_Gaymer/pseuds/The_Female_Gaymer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If we burn our wings flying too close to the sun,</i>
  <br/>
  <i>If the moment of glory is over before it's begun,</i>
  <br/>
  <i>If the dream is won, though everything is lost,</i>
  <br/>
  <i>We will pay the price, but we will not count the cost.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>We will pay the price, but we will not count the cost.</i>
  <br/>
</p><p>
A phone call changes the course of the night, and he rushes to find him. It's not enough. It will never be enough.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	No Happy Endings

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by two songs-- "No Happy Endings" from the GTA V Score, and "Bravado" by Rush.

Jesus Christ.

Michael looked down at his vibrating phone in annoyance, Trevor's caller I.D. popping up for the fourth time in a row. His wife cleared her throat, and Michael shook his head. "I know, I know," he replied. He already texted Trevor that he was with his family at dinner right now. Couldn't he understand what "not right now" meant? Was "no" even a word in the man's vocabulary? Of course it was, but it probably fell under the category of what Trevor considered his version of swear words. And what did the average man do with swear words thrown his way? He ignored them. 

Michael let the device timeout, sending Trevor to his voicemail. He shoveled another mouthful of chicken down his throat. 

Trevor called again. Immediately. 

Michael cursed under his breath, swiping the phone from the table and pressing the "end call" button. Roughly. 

"Fucker," he muttered.

"Michael, watch it," Amanda warned him. Swearing was prohibited at the table-- the only safe zone in the entire house. Tracey and Jimmy nodded in silent agreement with their mother.

Michael muttered his apologies, then jumped at the feel of the phone acting up in his hand yet again. Not even five seconds had passed. He leaned back in his chair and shrugged helplessly at Amanda.

"What do you want me to do? I let it ring, he keeps calling, I turn off the phone, he comes hunting for me, I answer, I probably get sucked in to something. What do I do?"

The two children turned to look at their mother, awaiting her response.

After a moment of disbelief at the whole situation, Amanda shook her head, making shooing motions out of the room. "Go, Michael, see what he wants."

"Right, right, sorry." Michael apologized profusely as he stood from the table. He marched out the back door, and when the door clicked closed behind him, he finally answered Trevor's desperate calling.

"Trevor," he growled out under his breath into the receiver, "I swear to God, you better be dying or have won the fucking lottery to be calling me when I specifically _told_ you--"

There was a deep, shuddering, dry breath on the other end of the line, then a cough, followed by a groan.

"F-funny you should mention that," a hoarse, gravelly voice replied on the other end. He gave a weak laugh, then a sound of pain, strained and sharp. "The whole, uh, dying thing? That might actually be a thing that's happening right now." 

Michael blinked, uncertain what Trevor was saying. "What do you mean, Trevor? Where are you, what happened?"

His weak coughing was so unlike him. Frighteningly weak. 

"You know how persistent those Lost fuckers are," he replied lightly. "Can't let go of old grudges, even after a year. I mean, let bygones be bygones, damn it. I moved on with my life, why can't they move on with theirs? Well, uh, one of them sliced me up pretty good in the general abdominal region. Doesn't--" Trevor sucked in a harsh breath, then hissed it out through clenched teeth. "Doesn't feel too great. I'll be honest with ya. But forget about that, what's-- what's new with the kids? How's Tracey?"

Michael's blood turned to frigid ice in his veins, and his head suddenly pounded with the feeling of his own pulse. "What. Did. You. Do, where are you? Talk to me, Trevor."

There was a scoff. "Funny, I didn't think you wanted to talk to me right now. You're too good for me, right? Family first--" 

"Fuck you!" Michael shouted as his frame trembled. He paced, and his breath came quick in his chest. "You are my family, now where the fuck are you?!"

"Where the fuck do you think I am, Townley? Sandy fucking Shores, get with the program, Sherlock. Where else would I be?" Trevor hissed in another breath, and let loose a pathetic sounding whimper. 

"Don't you fucking go anywhere," Michael commanded him as he dialed Lester's number, and he looked up only to realize he'd already gotten in his car, and was making his way down the driveway. How he'd gotten from point A to point B was lost on him.

"Don't worry," Trevor assured him on a weak laugh, "I don't think I'm budging an inch any which way. Look, just take a seat, alright? Just--"

Michael could hear the smile in his voice, and it made his blood curdle. "This isn't fucking funny, Philips! Fuck, Lester, pick up the fucking--!"

The other line stopped ringing, and there was a brief fumbling, before Michael heard Lester’s voice. "Good evening, Michael. I see you're out for an evening drive--"

"Fuck tracking me!" he nearly shouted into his earpiece. "Where the fuck is Trevor?!"

Before Lester could have a chance to ask what had gotten in to Michael or to start yelling back in defense, there was another weak cough from the man in question, and a groan. The three-way call made Trevor sound even more distant.

"He's pretty needy, Lester," he teased. "He's coming for a booty call. Look, don't tell him where I am. I need some personal space right now."

"The fuck?!" Michael raged. "I'm coming to find you and get you the help you need! Where the fuck's Ron, or Chef? Why are you bleeding out in the middle of fucking nowhere? And why the fuck did you call me first, of all people?!"

"Don't-- don't worry about it, M, they're not important right now. I'm talking to you now. Are you driving? Just pull over, calm down. You don't need to be--"

"He's somewhere around Calafia Bridge. Western side of the Alamo Sea," Lester informed Michael. He sounded surprisingly cool, given the situation. "Trevor, what's your status?"

"Just a flesh wound," he said, and choked again. "Nothing serious, I'm just feeling a little lightheaded. I'm hiding out until the Lost cool their shit."

"That don't fuckin' _sound_ like a fuckin' flesh wound, Trevor!" Michael pounded his fist on his steering wheel in frustration. "And so here I am, driving the fucking two hours to Blaine fucking County to find your ass and get you out of there! Now I'm not gonna fucking ask again! Why ain't you got Ron or Chef to help ya?!"

"Because," Trevor growled out at long last, "Chef got one in the fucking skull, and Ron's bleeding out somewhere back in the Lost camp! They-- they're fucking gone, alright? They’re _gone_. I got to think about myself now." He sucked in another breath, and exhaled through shaking lips. "But I'll be fine. Look, just pull over-- you don't have to come find me. Let's just talk, alright? I just gotta hear a friendly voice to keep me anchored, that's all. I'll be fine." 

Lester, on his end of the line, made a panicked sound. "Look, I've got to go-- one of my other clients is on the other line. Michael, call back if you need anything." And before Michael could yell at him to not go anywhere, to stay on the fucking line, Lester was gone.

"Fuck!" Michael shouted. He hit the steering wheel repetitively as he roared his frustration.

Trevor shouted. "Michael! Just shut up! Calm the fuck down, why don't ya?! This isn't-- this isn't what I called you for! Cool it, sugartits, alright?"

"How can I be 'cool'," Michael exclaimed, "when you're out there somewhere in the dark with your insides hanging out--" A wave of nausea passed over him, and he had to shut his mouth and inhale deeply to keep from vomiting. He used the moment to calm himself quickly. "Look, Trevor. Tell me _exactly_ what happened, and how you got there."

"I told you. I fucked with the Lost. I got cut, I ran, and now I'm hiding. How is that so hard to understand?"

"I just don't understand what kind of sick kick you get out of intentionally putting yourself in danger, T! Christ, fucking Christ..."

"You're not helping me, Michael," Trevor said. "I don't need you berating me. I need you to talk some sense to me. Talk. Just. Talk." There was shuffling on the other end of the line, and a pained whimper. He sounded so much like a wounded dog, and Michael felt pangs of apprehension rip through him.

Michael closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"How long," he asked, "do you think you can hold out?"

Trevor snorted. "I told you I'm fine, Michael. I'm going to be just fucking fine, just fine."

Michael forced himself to relax, and exhaled the breath he'd been holding. "What do you want to talk about? What is there to even say?" 

"Anything you want," Trevor replied. "I just need to hear your voice. I just need to hear you talk to me like you actually give a shit about me for once."

Michael screwed up his face. "T... I've always cared about you. I always gave a shit about you."

"Wow. Still full of shit, I see," he chuckled breathlessly.

"I'm serious," he growled to Trevor. "You've always been my closest friend, Trevor. No one had ever come close to what we got. That's why I need you to hold on, until I get there. So I can get you the help you need."

Trevor groaned. "I told you, Michael, I'm going to be fine. I just need you to keep talking so I don't fall unconscious and let the Lost fucks get the jump in me." 

Michael held back a shout of anger and anguish at the blatant lie. As much as he wanted to believe it himself, he knew, from the sound of Trevor's voice, this was different from other wounds the man had sustained over his lifetime. This was worse. Far worse. He looked down at his GPS on his phone. Still another hour and forty five minutes to Sandy Shores, at the unbelievably dangerous speed he was going at through the blissfully empty highway. Fuck. The best he could do was humor Trevor for the time being, as much as he hated this entire situation. He had no choice.

"Okay," he sighed, "okay okay, alright, fuck. Uh, Christ, uh, did I tell you Tracey's thinking college?"

Trevor made a sound of surprise, though he trembled.

"College? Fuck, you're kidding."

"No kidding," Michael assured him, and he smiled lightly. "Sent in all her applications. As stupid as she can be sometimes, she's a smart girl. She got good grades in high school. She'll get accepted somewhere, I know it."

"Can't wait to see it," the Canadian agreed. Then, he choked-- it sounded like he was holding the phone receiver away from his face-- and he sniffled when he brought it back to his face.

"And Jimmy?" he asked weakly. "Still a lazy little shit?"

"Yeah," Michael said, and then laughed. "Jesus, I don't know what I'm gonna do with that kid, T. His life's down the fucking toilet, he'll just be a charity case his whole life I've decided, and there's no way in hell Amanda and I are providing for him his whole goddamn life. No fuckin' way."

"He'll learn, Trevor assured him. "He'll get the idea. I know he's a fat fuck like you, and he hates everybody, but there's some semblance of a good natured person somewhere in there. He'll get the idea."

"Fingers crossed, I guess," Michael replied.

"And-- and Amanda?" Trevor inquired.

"What about Amanda?" Michael asked, feeling sick and anxious as the minutes counted down until he would reach Trevor's location.

"What is she doing with her life? What's the day count since the last 'incident'?"

"Geeze," Michael stuttered. "Well, it's been a long fucking time, I can tell you that much. Ain't been nobody since that Fabian asshole. And that was around the Union Depository time, so that's... fuckin' A, I think that's four months."

"Four months..." Trevor repeated it softly, in a static whisper over the line.

"Maybe five," Michael said.

"Five."

"Yeah. Jesus Christ."

"I ain't seen ya enough," Trevor lamented. "Guess that's one positive to you wasting your time coming down here. I'll get to see you."

Michael wasn't sure how to reply to that. Trevor had always been known to be somewhat easily attached to people, but the type of attachment varied from person to person. And what they had… what they _used_ to have… maybe still had? He didn’t know-- caused Trevor’s statement to carry a whole different connotation to it. There was a moment of quiet, the sound of shuffling, and then, just as Michael was about to confess something to Trevor, the call got dropped.

Michael's heart sank into his stomach.

"Trevor!?" he shouted into an empty line. "Trevor, you fucker, answer me! Philips!"

He peeled his phone away from his head, staring in horror when he realized Trevor wasn't on the line any longer. The call had ended on Trevor's end. Michael rushed into his contacts and called him back, shaking.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he cursed and spat. He didn't think Trevor's injuries had been that bad. He'd been able to carry on a coherent conversation. What the fuck had happened?!

The receiver rang twice, then there were the sounds of fumbling. The call disconnected. Trevor had cut Michael off again. He would have time to cringe at his own pathetic whimper later, but he had to get back on the line with Trevor, before he lost his mind with worry.

The receiver rang once. 

Twice. 

Three times. 

It was halfway through the fourth when he finally shuddered back to life on the other end.

"J-Jesus," Trevor rasped as Michael heaved a massive sigh of relief, "you're fucking desperate tonight. Didn't think you needed to hear my voice so bad, you kinky fuck. I figured phone sex was one of your--"

"You're the one that called me!" Michael exclaimed breathlessly. "You and your fucking disgusting jokes and jabs, I swear to-- T, what the fuck happened there? Are you okay?"

"Some Lost passed overhead," he explained. "I didn't want them to hear me. I'm fine, you clingy fuck. Jesus. Jesus, I got a fucking pounding headache."

Michael glanced out the window, then down at his phone screen. He was making quicker time than he had anticipated: if he was lucky, he'd get there a half hour sooner than he'd planned. "Uh," he stuttered, "so, so how much blood do you estimate you've lost?"

Trevor thought about it. "Not enough for concern."

"Tell me," Michael commanded quietly. "I don't care if it’s a couple drops, I need to know so I know how to help you when I get there. We've got the same blood type, remember? I can be a donor for ya if it looks real bad."

The other end went quiet as he thought.

"A liter?" he said uncertainly. "Liter and a half?"

Michael felt as if someone had jammed thousands of needles into his arms all at once, and his vision blurred. A liter and a half. "Are you still bleeding?"

"No." The answer came too quick, but the next statement came a little slower. "Maybe a little. I'm fine now."

"Fuck off. That's not fine. Jesus, fuck, hit an artery or something, fuck."

There was a heavy shudder, static breath bleeding into Michael's ear.

"Five months," he said.

It took a moment for Michael to remember what he was referencing, and he sighed as he was taken back to it. "Yeah," he agreed softly. "About that time. Hard to believe, huh?"

More shuffling.

"I was supposed to last longer."

"What was that?"

"I was supposed to last longer."

Michael inhaled sharply. "Trevor, stop--"

"I got cocky. Just like you always warned me about. I was supposed to last longer than this."

"Hey, stop talking like that," Michael cried into the receiver. "You've lasted through worse. You've made it through worse. Don't you-- don't you remember the time back in Yankton when we were in a rush to get away from the cops, and we hit that barrier? Fuck, I swear you catapulted out the windshield at a hundred Goddamn miles an hour. Watching you tumble like that, I thought I was gonna have a heart attack, right then and there. You made it through that in one piece, right?"

"Yeah. But I got lucky there."

"Alright then," Michael continued, "then let me address the elephant in the room. When I betrayed you and Brad, what was supposed to go down was Brad was supposed to get life, and you were the one that was supposed to go down. Already told you that. Well, fuckin' hell, Brad got shot instead. There had to be someone to bring in. It was going to be you. But you escaped, and if that isn't fucking luck right there, then I don't know what is."

Trevor was quiet on the other end.

"You're luck's not out yet, Philips," Michael growled into the phone. "It ain't fuckin' out yet."

Trevor gave Michael a pained chuckle.

"Yeah," he whispered. "It'll take a lot more than bein' gutted like a pig to put old Trevor Philips out to pasture."

"Fuckin' A right."

Trevor grunted as he remembered something. "I remember that day, actually."

"Which one?" Michael asked.

"The one where we hit hard and I got ejected. I remember that day."

Michael leaned back in his seat, but his speed didn't decrease. Another hour, at most. A half hour at least, if he got lucky. "Tell me what you remember. Keep talkin' to me, T."

"I remember--" he had to swallow a couple times before he could find enough voice to tell the story. "I remember it was back when it was just you, me, Lester, and anyone else we could pick up when we needed them. You and me just took out a shitty convenience store, it wasn't nothin' big. It was just the two of us. The police were pretty uh, pretty relentless that day. We were booking it out of there at top speed, and you kept looking back. I was telling you, 'Look at the fucking road, Michael, look at the fucking road.' But you wouldn't listen to me, you just kept looking back, kept staring at those fucking sirens in the distance tracking us down. And I started looking back with you, and the next thing I knew, my head smashed against the glass, and I saw the... the blue of the sky, even though it was turning to night. And I just had this moment of thinking, 'Holy shit. I just got fucking ejected from the fucking car.' And hitting the ground was... It was like getting kicked in the back by a semi-truck. I blacked out for a bit there after the first impact."

"Blacked out?" Michael had to cut in by this point, and he smiled and laughed. "Fuck, T, you were out fucking cold! 'Blacked out' my ass! Christ! It's a fucking miracle you didn't break anything! I still can't fucking believe it."

"Bones of titanium, Mikey." The smile was audible in Trevor's voice, though it wavered and trembled quietly.

"I had to drag your ass through the fucking tree line so we wouldn't get caught. That was another miracle, right there-- that the police didn't find us."

"How long did we stay back there?"

"Oh, Christ," Michael sighed, "long enough that you woke up whining, and we had to sit together for warmth until we were positive the coast was clear."

Trevor went quiet for a long time. He wondered what he was going to say, but when he thought about what happened afterwards, Michael gulped. He was probably thinking about the same thing Michael was. Michael hoped and prayed that he wasn't going to mention...

"Must have been really cold," Trevor commented. "... because you were glued to me all night long."

Michael just looked down at his phone, counting down the miles, and said nothing.

"You were really warm," Trevor continued, though more to himself than to Michael. "Couldn't ever remember bein' that... that hot before. Not even on hundred degree summer nights. It was like fire, man. Fire, coverin' every inch of me... soft... slick... desperate. It was... different. It'd never been like that before. You'd never been like that before."

Michael sighed. “The first night of many.”

“Your, uh, ‘no homo’ policy was pretty fucking hilarious.”

By this time, Michael was pulling off of the freeway into Blaine County, at long last-- another twenty to thirty minutes to Trevor's location. He grew defensive at Trevor’s statement. "I thought I'd lost you--" the words came out of Michael's mouth before he could stop them. Instead of locking up completely, he let the words flow.

"I remember sitting in the car after the air bag deflated, lookin' over and... and you weren't fucking there. And I just got so sick to my stomach. I didn't even know if I could stand to look forwards after that. I was worried I'd find an arm here and then a leg there, and at the end of the trail, whatever was left of your body. And when I got out and ran to you, your head was bleeding, and you had a bloody nose. 'Ah, fuck, he's got a concussion and he's dead,' was my second thought. I didn't know what the fuck I was going to do without you, or how I was gonna move on in one piece. You were--"

Michael swallowed down the lump in his throat.

"You _are_ a major fucking part of me, T. I'm not me without you. I'm nobody."

He didn't even realize he'd started crying until he was wiping at his cheeks and under his eyes.

"Fuck, T, you can't leave me. I'm-- I'm almost there, man, I'll get you out of this. Just a couple more minutes."

There was a long, shuddering, whimpering sigh.

"Do you love me?"

Michael's entire body was shaking. Everything felt ice cold to the touch.

"What?"

Do you love me, M?"

Michael shook his head to try to get the blur out of his eyes. "I'm almost there--"

"I love you."

"I love you too," Michael blurted, and it sounded so forced, but that was only to get it past the miserable swelling of his throat. "I love you, I do, fuck. And I've done so much wrong by you, and T, I swear to God, I'm gonna make it better, I'm gonna get you out of this and you're gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay, okay? T, come on, keep talking to me, tell me about the Union Depository. Tell me about how we reunited, how you found me, tell me how we--"

He looked down at his phone. It was fifteen minutes to Trevor's location.

"Tell me about the-- about Ludendorff, tell me about Brad, the-- the fucking plane and the flare in the eye and the, the--"

"I'm cold."

Michael sobbed. "Don't you fucking _dare_ \--"

"I'm tired."

"Trevor, stay with me, don't you close those fucking eyes!"

Silence. Static silence. Ten minutes to Trevor.

"Trevor!" Michael screamed into the receiver after another minute.

Two more minutes passed. Michael hoped and prayed.

One last breath.

"... I'm scared, Mikey."

Oh God.

"Trevor? Trevor, listen to me, I'm right around the fucking corner, don't you fucking leave me now!"

The sound of a phone being dropped.

Michael shouted in anguish, banging his free hand on the steering wheel in pained frustration and terror. He passed the camp of those assholes that were the cause of all of this, the cause of all this misery and pain, still gunning it to try to find Trevor. He could see Calafia Bridge now, and he found himself frightened of what he was going to find.

The Tailgater skidded to a halt on the south side of the bridge. Michael threw open his door, stumbling out into the cool desert night air. He looked all around, but couldn't see any obvious signs of Trevor's presence anywhere.

"Trevor!" He cupped his hands around his mouth, looking around wildly. "Answer me, you asshole! Where are you? Trevor!"

There was nothing to answer his calls. Not even the cry of a coyote. There was nothing. He tried again, desperate for something, anything. "I know you're around here, asshole! Come on, T!"

A car passed by him, illuminating the underside of the bridge briefly. He saw a flash of white and red on the other side of the bridge, across the water. His knees nearly buckled beneath him at the sight.

"Shit," he whispered, "shit, fuck, fuck!" He ran over the bridge, so quick and so desperate that he was nearly tripping over himself in his panic. "Trevor!" He screamed at the top of his lungs, and he was certain that it echoed all the way to the Lost camp, but he couldn't afford to care anymore. He rounded the corner, shoes skidding down the side of the steep hill. Rocks trickled into his shoes, before he jumped the last few feet, slamming down. Water splashed up into his eyes as his hands smacked down, cut and bruised on rocks.

"Trevor," he gasped, "I'm here, I'm here, Trevor, I'm here, I'm... I'm..."

He came to a stop, dropping to his hands and knees in the shallow water. He crawled to the body there, tears flowing freely down his face. At first, he did nothing, only stared in shock, and those amber eyes stayed unblinking, focused somewhere ahead of him without knowing why. Then, Michael got a hold of himself, rushing to make the body lay on its back. He placed an ear to his chest. Silence.

"No, no, no no no, fuck, fuck, come on, come on, breathe, breathe!"

His lips were pale. They were pale, and dry. When Michael slammed his hands down on his chest in repeated compressions, it was stiff. The blood on his hands was cold. He pressed his lips to his, breathing in as much air as he could into his lungs, and there was no warmth in his skin. There was no warmth in any part of him. Michael couldn't breathe. He couldn't think, couldn't digest what was happening, only kept pushing and begging, the tears in his eyes blurring the harrowing sight before him.

"Fucking-- fucking breathe, you piece of shit, come on!"

He gave CPR to him for a long time, hoping, praying, at that point, for a miracle, or divine intervention, something, anything. But there was nothing. His compressions eventually faltered, coming to a complete halt, his hands coated in cold blood from the gaping wound in his gut.

"Fuck, please, Christ, you asshole," Michael sobbed, "wake up, wake the fuck up! Trevor!"

He searched him for any sign of life at all, but there was nothing. Trevor lay still. He didn't blink. He didn't breathe. He didn't speak, and his heart didn't beat. The only sound that could be heard was Michael's shocked crying, and the waves of the Alamo sea washing up at his knees, lapping at Trevor's limp fingers as they lay in the waves. Michael scooped up the body of his best friend, his running buddy, his lover, closing his eyes with shaking hands, and he lay there with him, shivering and miserable, but too angry and lost to move.

 

* * *

 

The smell of stale piss and desert sweat would never leave the small trailer. No matter how much he cleaned it, made it look presentable, no matter how much bleach he poured in the toilet or scrubbed the tiles with, how many times he vacuumed or mopped, it would always smell like Trevor.

Michael threw down the washcloth in his hand in exasperation. It was good, but it'd never be good enough. No one would want to buy this place. No one would come and fill this empty space. Not with the smells, the stains. The place would probably have to be torn down, and the lot left either empty, or something new built on top of it. But if Michael knew anything about Sandy Shores real estate, the place would probably just be left abandoned for whatever hobo broke in first. The sanctity desecrated. But he couldn’t stay here. It wasn’t his scene. This was… this was Trevor’s thing. He sat on the ugly plaid couch, sighing and running his hands through his hair.

The silence was sucking the life out of him.

Trevor had been dead for two weeks. He'd taken his broken and drained body to the hospital, and they performed the necessary procedures to get him to the morgue in one piece. They asked Michael what he wanted done with the body. Michael had to really think about that, before coming to a decision.

"Cremate him. The asshole never would have accepted a burial."

And so they did. The ashes were sitting on the counter right now in front of him, in an urn shaped like a torch. He stared at it, with its gold trimmings and reliefs, and hoped he'd made the right decision.

When Amanda called to find out just where the hell he was, he told her the truth. The other end of the line had been quiet for a long time as she contemplated how to respond to the death of someone she despised, but Michael was so close to. He told her he wanted to stick around for a while and see things through to the end, clean up the trailer and tie up whatever loose ends Trevor had not managed to-- peacefully, if he could. They argued over the phone about it-- she didn’t want Michael anywhere near those crack-addicts that Trevor dealt with in his life, but she did seem like she held empathy towards Michael. He’d argued that he didn’t want people knocking at their door next if they knew about Trevor’s connection to him, and that he would be there to shoo away any stragglers that Trevor owed money or weapons to. At last, she'd simply said, "Just come home when you're ready to," and hung up.

He'd been in Sandy Shores ever since.

Whatever was left in Trevor's bank account was split between Michael, Lester, and Franklin evenly. The two other men also expressed their condolences, affected by Trevor's death as well, but not as deeply as Michael. They didn’t know him like he had. They didn’t know the side of him Michael had seen on quiet nights spent sleeping in the backs of stolen cars, or after hours of passion, when he was calm, and at peace. They didn’t know that Trevor.

Michael sorted through Trevor's things. There were two boxes-- keep, and donate. Anything else went to the trash. The donate box was nearly completely empty. The keep box was full. And, in the course of his cleanings, Michael had found something he never would have expected Trevor to own: a record player.

It was a newer model-- one of those that were sold at the end of the shelf life of the device, before boom boxes and CD players took over. The built in radio was broken, and he hadn't found any records in the trailer to test on the device. Where he'd gotten it, or why he had hung on to it was beyond Michael, but it certainly wasn't during their Yankton days. He'd gotten the device after they'd separated. Michael stared at it-- he'd placed it on the wooden table by the far window. He wished, deep down, that he had some sort of record to play on it, but so far, when going through Trevor's things, he hadn't found a single vinyl to play on the device. With a heavy sigh, he got back to his feet. It was probably time that he went through Trevor's closet. That was going to be the hard part-- the smells would probably affect him the most there.

The bed was already made, the sheets cleaned and tucked away in the keep box, the nightstand emptied of its contents and paraphernalia. All that was left was the looming wardrobe at the front of the room. He rummaged through the closet, throwing away rotten, half-eaten food, empty wrappers, and anything that'd been chewed through and was unwearable. As he went through the closet, he fumbled and faltered as he came across that red check shirt that Trevor had always looked so good in. Red was Trevor’s color-- he just looked… natural in it. He looked around, as if afraid that someone was watching him, before holding the fabric up to his nose and inhaling deeply.

Clean. It smelled like Trevor when he was clean. Old Spice. Clean sweat. Trevor clean. Trevor.

He put it on. As he did so, he looked down at the bottom of the wardrobe, and something caught his eye. He reached down, pulling it out with curious hands, and his brow furrowed to read the faded writing.

A vinyl. _Roll the Bones_. Rush.

Michael stared at it for a long time, half surprised at the sight. He didn't even know Trevor liked Rush. Though, now that he thought about it, it made sense. A Canadian man that like a Canadian band. And it fit his hipster nature, too-- so few people even knew about Rush, that Michael could could on just his hands how many people he personally knew that liked them. He pulled the cover out carefully, and sure enough, upon peering inside the cover, the vinyl was inside. He pulled it out, inspecting it for scratches, and found none. It was in pristine condition.

A minute later, he was on the couch again, waiting for the thing to start. He'd just put the needle in a random spot, and was waiting for the track to begin. That was what a lot if his life felt like right now. Waiting. Soon enough, he hears a melancholy guitar, and a distant bass, accompanied by light drums. He knows their sound, the band was one of his favorites back in the eighties, but something feels different here. Something feels more emotional.

 

" _If we burn our wings flying too close to the sun,_  
_If the moment of glory is over before it's begun,_  
_If the dream is won, though everything is lost,_  
_We will pay the price, but we will not count the cost.  
We will pay the price, but we will not count the cost._

" _When the dust has cleared, and victory denied,_  
_A summit too lofty, river a little too wide._  
_If we keep our pride, though paradise is lost,_  
_We will pay the price, but we will not count the cost.  
We will pay the price, but we will not count the cost._ "

 

He sniffles. He tries, so desperately, to hold back the tears that he knows are coming, but he can't. He tries, but he can't do it. He places his head in his hands and weeps. He weeps like the world is caving in around him and he can't bear the weight of it on his own. He weeps like he has nothing left, and his throne of gold is nothing but dust and broken glass. He weeps as he recalls what he and Trevor faced, together and alone, side by side or at opposite ends of a room, in synchronized chaos. He weeps as he recalls endless nights of shouting, of strange methods of shutting up, of countless hours of heat and skin and half-begged words, sometimes from him, sometimes from Trevor. He weeps as he realizes he's the only living person with those memories now. There would be no more recountings of the glory days over a shared bottle of booze. There would be no more shouting matches. There would be no more making up for those matches. All Michael had was himself, and a few friends that would never understand. The memories were his alone. He was alone.

 

" _And if the music stops, there's only the sound of the rain,_  
_All the hope and glory, all the sacrifice in vain,_  
_And if love remains, though everything is lost,_  
_We will pay the price, but we will not count the cost.  
We will pay the price, but we will not count the cost..._ "

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry.
> 
> Tumblr: the-female-gaymer.tumblr.com


End file.
